


I Suppose You'll Want Me to Sing a Music Number Next?

by LadyArinn



Series: Somehow I Suppose it's Love [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, And Petulant, But it's a secret, He's confused, M/M, Poor Eames, Pouting Eames, Soulmates, Which is not a secret, romantic Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:31:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7071145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyArinn/pseuds/LadyArinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames was happily living his life, leaping into peoples' heads and dreams and doing things that had been impossible years before, sometimes interrupted by him catching sight of a pretty little something he just had to have in a museum or private collection. He traveled the world and shamelessly suffered from many vices and had yet to suffer the consequences. Everything was great, and it always would be.</p>
<p>Then, with a single touch from some fussy looking point man, his entire world implodes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Suppose You'll Want Me to Sing a Music Number Next?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainKenway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainKenway/gifts).



> So, this is for my wonderful CaptainKenway, who loves soulmate fics maybe more than she loves me.
> 
> I'm not jealous or anything.
> 
> This fic is birthed from a long conversation in which we complained about annoying tropes, one of which was the fact that if there is a couple and one person is forced to always be the damsel in distress you're doing it wrong. This was originally promised to be a 5+1, but it's not, but it is now going to be a series that might actually end up being a 5+1? 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

  
Arthur’s favorite movies were a secret. Not because he was actively keeping it a secret or anything like that, because out of everything in his life that was a bit of an odd choice for something he would take to the grave, but because no one was ever really allowed to get close enough to the man to learn the truth. It wasn’t exactly something that would come up in common conversation in his line of work either, so it stayed a secret.

If you asked anyone who knew him in passing their opinion on the matter – which, why would you, but it’s a hypothetical situation so just go along with it – some would say foreign films because he just looked like that sort of person, what with his bespoke suits and his general aura of disdain for the lesser beings who got in his way during the day. Fancy French films that focused on ideals and imagery instead of plot, without the subtitles fliting across the bottom of the screen because obviously he would know French. _Obviously_.

Then others would claim documentaries. They’d say it would go along with his need for everything to be exact and his undeniable thirst for any and all knowledge. It would have started as a way for him to just gain that knowledge, maybe as a way to one up everyone else in existence, but then he would have grown to love them. And then a small number would claim action films because they would think it could be a secret passion. After all, his job was danger filled and adrenaline fueled, so maybe he would seek the same from his movie experiences.

Eames doesn’t learn the truth until the tenth date-that-they-call-a-date _(Because no, Eames, the two of us going into a restaurant to escape the hitmen following us does not count as a date. Anyways, the fish there looked positively anemic.)_ They had not on been on a job and were not actively searching for a job, a relatively rare occurrence during the first year of their relationship. They’d been staying at the first of Arthur’s homes he would share with the other man, the first willingly taken significant step of trust between them. It had seemed like such a big deal at the time, one of the most important steps taken between them at the time, and they’d treaded the ground around each other cautiously until Eames had eventually thrown up his hands and declared that they were going to have a nice lie-in date and watch terrible movies.

He puts on _The Proposal_ to start, because he’s of the mind that Arthur would be the sort to love foreign films and would have bet his tenth favorite less-than-legally acquired artwork on it, and he imagined that the movie would offend the other man’s delicate sensibilities. But other than a bit of huffing at the beginning before the title even rolls, he is silent. Suspiciously silent. _Too_ silent. So at the point where Sandra’s character is just beginning to fumble her way with Ryan Reynolds’ character through the beginning of their ridiculous fiasco, Eames looks over to see just how much hatred there had to be to render Arthur silent, and he notices a funny thing.

His face was almost completely flat, his expression something an artist had attempted to carve into unimpressed stone, but his mouth was way too relaxed and his eyes too soft for him to actually be annoyed or apathetic. Eames watches him watch the ridiculous movie, and he sees those corners twitch up and then relax, his body at ease and his eyes almost content, and he comes to formulate a bit of a hypothesis. One he tests as soon as the movie is done by putting on the stupidest, sappiest movie he knows.

When Westly utters his first _“As you wish,”_ to Buttercup and Eames watches the way Arthur’s mouth unconsciously opens just a bit as if trying to taste the words on the air, he _knows_ , oh does he know. His dignified, put together, strict Arthur doesn’t have such bland or predictable tastes as he had thought, and really he should have known better. Of course the other man would do something as amazing as favor _romance_ movies above all else. Of course.

And really, that explains some of how their relationship began very well.

 

* * *

  
The first thing Eames hears about Arthur is, “He’s brilliant.”

Well, in full it had actually been, “He’s brilliant, and if you somehow ruin this I will eviscerate you.” But he later chooses just to focus on the Arthur-centric part, as he frequently and unashamedly tends to do.

And Eames, looking at the head of the job he’d been on, a complex little thing in Morocco that had to deal with stealing a few utterly delicious things from the palace’s head of security, had blinked innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do.” The threatening woman scolds, hands on her wide hips and a glare in her hard eyes, “Every time you see someone you think is too straight laced you always do something to infuriate them just so you can feel better about yourself. And if you do that to this Point Man, who I would literally cut off my _arm_ to get a good rapport with for future jobs, I will make sure you live every day of your remaining life in regret.”

She was a stout woman named Alicia who took no nonsense from anyone and who had a decently skilled hand with chemicals, and who had yet to fall to the force of Eames’ charms. He claimed it was a work in process, she claimed he was an idiot. And really, who was to say who was right?

She wasn’t the best, but she was good, and she only allowed herself to work with equally good or better people, so she was making a decent name for herself. Apparently, this brilliant Arthur was the next step in her plan to take over the dream-sharing world or something. He was a bit fuzzy on the details because he had been purposely ignoring her.

“That’s not true,” He protests, grinning at her furious glare, “I don’t do it to feel better about myself, I do it because it’s _funny_.” She slapped at him, growling a little bit.

“This is the one of the first times he’s done work away from the Cobbs, and I want to make sure I’m someone he’s willing to work with later because, as I said, he is brilliant.” She points menacingly, “So I will be watching you.”

“Oh, please do.” He purred, just as the old elevator beeped its arrival onto their abandoned office floor. It opened just as Alicia had rearranged herself to look more professional, so Eames made a point of doing the exact opposite. He slouched as she stood straight, shoving fists into his pockets after he had ran his hands through his hair to mess it up, and did everything possible in his thirty second window to look like a slacking bum.

The chemist was practically shaking in fury beside him.

And then out strolled a man who looked impossibly young, like he was just barely legal – though the legality was being generous, truthfully – in a suit so fine and well fitting that dollar signs seemed to be sewn into the tailored fabric. His hair was carefully done, his face a stern and blank slate that would have been imposing had it not been for the baby face, and the briefcase in his hand just added to the entire picture of a kid playing dress-up. Eames nearly laughed out loud, but he did have some restraint. Not enough to fully stifle his snort of laughter but still, at least it wasn’t full blown laughter.

The man-child strode forward with purpose, straight to Alicia, and held out a hand for her.

“Alicia? I’m Arthur. I look forward to working with you.” He says like nothing had ever been exciting in life, and Alicia returned the favor. Then he turned to Eames, his eyes quickly flitting head to toe to add to the judgement he had already made in the few steps between the elevator and them, and Eames just knew that he was going to love messing with the man. It was probably going to be his favorite thing about the entire job and he was so looking forward to it.

Arthur held out his hand again and Eames slapped his own into it in a messy sort of handshake, nothing like the professional one between Alicia and him, and just as he was about to announce his own name in the thickest, ugliest accent cockney accent he could come up with the words died on his tongue because he was too busy looking at the point his entire being had suddenly rearranged around.

Gravity shifted for just a moment, a wink and you’ll miss it moment of time that everyone else in the world but them could ignore. Their hands grasped tighter, grip realigning into something firm and reassuring as something deep inside of their fundamental being broke and then healed into the shards of the other. It was like watching a magic trick, something big and show stopping on the stage that would stop your breath in your chest as you stared in wonder as every rule you’d been taught in your life was defied.

Eames gapes and stares and wonders why he suddenly couldn’t help but notice how lovely the particular shade of brown of the other man’s eyes were, or how his hands were callused in a way that meshed well with his own. The way that the other man’s eyes were just a bit wider now, and how he had breathed in once, sharply, at the touch of their hands. The way that his heart was beating like he was running down a dirty alley while being chased by less than savory individuals, all adrenaline and blood and breathless laughter.

Eames was falling and being caught all at once, torn between the reality he had known and this new, better one involving and completely depending on the man before him.

“Oh.” Arthur breathed quietly, squeezing his hand once before letting go.

“I’m Eames.” Eames told him somewhat dumbly, that tug settling into his gut, settling into his hand where it was begging to go back to where it belonged.

“Oh.” Arthur said again, and then blinked. As if that was all it took, the point man was once again perfectly pulled together, and looked at the other man as if nothing had gone amiss. Eames had to wonder how he had done it because he would kill for that particular skill to come back into his repertoire, since it had been missing for the last few dumb-struck moments.

“We’ll need to have lunch together.” He says as if it were a forgone conclusion that any demand of his would be met. Eames was tempted to put him in his place by saying no but even more tempted by the idea of doing exactly what he wanted because that tug inside of himself was insisting that whatever he wanted was best. So when the man nods as if everything had been figured out, moving into their little work room to set up his own station, Eames doesn’t correct him. He just continues to stand there, back to the man but knowing every move he made despite the fact that he had no line of sight on him and wasn’t actively tracking him.

Alicia stood off to the side, completely forgotten and utterly confused.

 

* * *

 

Eames doesn’t really know what to expect because he could have sworn that this Arthur guy had gone through a bit of what he had when they had touched. So maybe a bit of acknowledgment at the very least, but the first half of their day passes with nothing. Nada. _Zip_. Arthur sets up a desk, plugs in a laptop, and is engrossed in whatever boring shit it is point men do for hours while Eames can’t help but to stare at him for too long and petulantly wonder why whatever this was was happening. And why it was only happening to him, because that was seriously unfair. He had done nothing to deserve this.

At some undefined point in the day, his confusion begins to morph into anger.

How dare he sit over there, so unaffected by whatever he had done to Eames. And he knew it had to be this _Arthur’s_ fault because everything had been fine up until the moment they’d touched. It had been a beautiful day, he’d been in a lovely mood, and the crepes he’d had for breakfast had been delicious. Then _he’d_ waltzed into the building like some prissy accountant and had done _something_ that had ruined everything about the previously pleasant day, and there the bastard sat, completely unmoved by it all.

When the man cones over to him at one, ready to go to their demanded lunch, Eames is ready for a fight. He wants one, even. He’s practically ready to just pull the man into one of the empty little alcoves they pass as they walk down the street and just start driving his fist into that stupid face, and he thinks about it more times than is probably healthy.

What he gets instead is the other man taking him to a restaurant in a hotel two streets away that he had apparently made reservations at for the table with the best sightlines, and them sitting down and having a _respectable_ lunch.

“The chicken tagine is supposed to be amazing here.” Arthur informs him evenly as they look over the menu.

“Great.” Eames mutters, sullenly deciding to get anything but the chicken.

“Of course, if you want a vegetarian option, the vegetable tagine is supposed to be good as well.”

“Do I look like a vegetarian?” Eames challenges, believing this to be his chance to have his big fight. He was ready for it, he had multiple zingers lined up that were sure to be emotionally crippling, and he knew just how much venom and hatred to inject in his voice _(a lot)._ Arthur’s eyes flick over him, assessing, and he decidedly does not blush because one cannot blush at a look from their new arch enemy.

Which, maybe he was being a tad overdramatic, but it certainly didn’t feel that way in the moment.

“I don’t know all that much about you, Mr. Eames.” Arthur conceded, neatly and infuriatingly sidestepping the landmines that had been purposely laid out for him. “That will, of course, have to change.”

“Because we’re working together?” The British man asks mulishly, slouching down in his seat a bit like a petulant child would. He had no idea where this thing was going.

“Because we’re soulmates.” Arthur says with a tone that hits at the obviousness of this situation, looking back down at his menu and flipping the page to look at the drink options while Eames gapes at the earth shattering statement. He’d said it like a fact, like someone would say things like _the sky is blue, ice cream is the best food, melted cheese on many things is delicious,_ or, _Beyoncé is a gift to this world._

_Hey, we’re soulmates_ does not go on that list. Not with Beyoncé. How dare he put that on the same level as that amazing woman.

“That’s just a myth.” He sniffs, scrambling to find his footing in this suddenly strange and off-putting conversation, “Something that’s only in those frankly terrible romance novels and films.”

“It’s a fact.” Arthur challenges, not looking up from his menu but his eyebrow twitching just the tiniest bit, “It’s rare and not commonly taught, but within the past decade seven percent of all pairings were soulmates. Scientifically, though it is still currently under debate, many studies have found a change in brain activity in couples claiming to be soulmates, and tests have found the presence of many behaviors that are popular in the soulmate mythos.”

Eames blinks, taken aback, and blurts out, “What, you’ve studied this?”

“Yes.” Arthur says as if it were something everyone does or at least should do, “Though I looked into it a bit more today, for obvious reasons.”

Eames shakes his head, and glares at the waiter who comes over to try and take their order until he hurries away, “No, the reasons are not obvious. We know abso-fucking-lutley nothing about one another, so how can we be soulmates even if such a thing exists? Why should I believe you?”

Arthur looks up again and it’s a bit like taking a knife to the chest, which was something that had only happened twice but had still been memorable enough experiences that he could recall the feeling easily. Those eyes were dangerous, and Eames was going to have to do something about that. Like punch them until his face was so swollen they’d just disappear.

It would be a temporary solution, but he supposed he could take up the burden of punching the man every time the swelling went down. It would be difficult, but he could do it.

“Because you felt it.” Arthur says, a bit more gently than his previous statements, making like Eames was some animal to be soothed. But he didn’t need soothing, he didn’t need some fairytale shit, and even if it weren’t made up he didn’t need a soulmate. Especially not this one.

So he stands up, his chair scraping loudly across the floor and decimating the silence that had encompassed their little table, and walks away.

He can’t go far, obviously, because he had committed to the job and it was _interesting_. Of course this all had to happen while he was on one of the more interesting jobs available in a too long spell of _boring_ and _disappointing_. It was unfair. It was Arthur’s fault.

When he eventually makes his way back to their base of operations, striding out of the elevator like an attack was waiting for him on the other side, he expects something. The man had just claimed that they were soulmates, so he had to be intent on doing something more about it since Eames had left before he could finish his _fairytales are forever_ spiel. Maybe pull out a few brochures (he seemed the type) and start singing a few Disney tunes in an effort to seduce him to his delusional fantasy.

Except when he walks into their little temporary home away from home, Alicia and their architect Lin are around Arthur’s desk and they’re discussing something dealing with the job, and the man doesn’t even bother to look up even as the others do to just acknowledge him.

So, that was how it was going to be.

He goes over to the chair he had commandeered and sits down in it with a huff, glaring at the back of that perfectly styled head as if that would make the man pay attention to him.

It didn’t, but at least he could take it as proof that the whole soulmate thing was bollocks anyways.

 

* * *

 

Eames’ hatred of Arthur festered and grew over the following weeks that they worked together on the job. Because that’s all they did. Work. The bastard was professional and distant and everything someone who had just proposed the preposterous wasn’t supposed to be. So he had been lying, obviously, for some reason that Eames had yet to figure out.

And he might have looked into soulmate research and statistics during certain times that he was supposed to be working on his part of the job instead. He was supposed to be figuring out just how to perfect the head of security’s mistress as well as his secret boyfriend for when they went in deeper, but instead he was looking up fantasy facts. It didn’t mean anything though. He was just curious about how far off the man’s preposterous allegations had been.

Not at all, it turns out. Soulmates were rare since the odds of meeting the person who was supposedly perfect for you was preposterous considering how many people there were in the world. But they did happen, with an estimated 100,000 people finding their soulmate each year around the world. And soulmates were not all romantic, according to some online chatrooms that Eames had managed to find his way to. Those pairings were just the most common in popular media, which was kind of a jip because how amazing was it that some friends were meant for one another? Or even family members? How incredible was it that the person you’d love the most in the world, the one person truly meant for you, didn’t have to be someone you macked on constantly? Eames much preferred that story to the ones that had been shoved down his throat since birth.

The only requirement for soulmates, apparently, was that they had to be someone that essentially matched you perfectly. Someone that you would want and who would want you no matter what. So there was no way this guy was that for him, because why would he want this prim pencil pusher who could obviously push aside his feelings – or, simply didn’t have any feelings.

_Ignore how it had felt, just forget it. He did._

He was work obsessed, way too prim, and he obviously couldn’t stand to get his perfect and probably manicured hands dirty. That was everything that Eames hated all wrapped up in a neat little package, and despite how delectable that ass looked in those tailored slacks the man had given one too many dubious looks at Eames’ prized vintage shirts, especially the paisley ones.

Eames refused to be soulmates with anyone who hated his shirts. He loved his shirts.

So their time working together is tense and terrible, and the other members of their team began to inevitably take notice. Alicia and Lin were forced to either stand or sit awkwardly between the two during their working days since the two men occupied the far sides of the room, the two bystanders stiff and stilted and not sure of what to do. They didn’t know what was going on or why it was happening, and they only could only hope that it wouldn’t affect the job because neither man was forthcoming with answers over what had happened.

Well Lin sat back and hoped, basically closing his eyes and covering his ears against the whole debacle. Alicia was never the sort to just lay back and let things happen while she watched, and was more prone to pushing at the situating and prodding it with a stick like a child with a dead animal. One day about a week after Arthur had joined their team she strode commandingly over to the man’s desk and leaned over it to get into his personal space. She got a high browed look that gave hint that she was a few moments away from him making her regret every decision she had ever made, but she ignored it valiantly.

“What did he do?” She asks, jerking her head toward a now deeply offended Eames. After all, Arthur was the cause of everything wrong in their situation. Maybe in the whole world, Eames wouldn’t put it past him. He was probably capable of great evils and atrocities. And he was sure that some would say that he was exaggerating, but he had every confidence that he was not because he was almost certain that Arthur was the worst person he had ever had the displeasure of meeting.

“Nothing.” Arthur answered her evenly, going back to his work and giving her one last chance to get out of his personal space. Alicia stared at him for a moment before nodding and turning to Eames, stalking over to hiss at him.

“I told you not to do anything to him.”

“ _I_ did _nothing_.” Eames hissed back and the woman literally rolled her eyes at him. Like he was being ridiculous.

“I don’t know what you did.” She says crossly, rudely ignoring his statement completely, “And I don’t expect you to apologize because I don’t believe in miracles, but if you don’t quit antagonizing him I will not be happy. I mean it.”

“Okay.” Eames tells her just to get her to go away. He uses all of his notable acting abilities to make himself look trustworthy and repentant until she finally leaves and he is able to just lean back in his chair and glare at Arthur as he diligently works. And he hates him.

 

* * *

 

When things go south, Eames doesn’t decide to blame Arthur for it. He’d been blaming Arthur for everything for weeks, so there was no decision that had to have been made. He was already there, and had been for so long he could never remember feeling anything different toward the man.

The head of security had militarized his mind, which they had known about, and it was obviously to be expected. He was the _head of security_ , so of course he had tried to protect himself from all potential threats like people being able to just enter your head and learn all of your deepest secrets. But the information they had received about just how much training and protection he had received – about mid-level, something that would be a difficult challenge but not _impossible_ – turned out to be completely and utterly false because someone with mid-level training would not be able to figure out that it was a dream that easily. Or have quite that many defenses. Or be able to _take control_ of the dream from them and start sadistically torturing the poor, unsuspecting dream-sharers.

All too soon they were running from some very angry palace guards and police, all of whom were armed and scary and out for blood. The four of them had split up, hoping that it wouldhelp their escape if they stayed apart and less easy to track. And it had.

For Lin, Alicia, and Arthur, presumably. Presumably, because they had yet to join Eames for the party he’d been kindly escorted to in some sort of interrogation room. And he was shamelessly putting everything entirely on the point man’s shoulders.

And oh, how he’d missed being tied up to a chair while numerous scary and official looking men shouted questions at him in Darija and then English. And when they got the blunt implements out – which was much smarter than fists because really, why would you risk injuring yourself to torture someone, it diminished the return on your investment – it was like the whole happy party was complete.

When the door burst open something like half an hour into the _real_ fun time, Eames figured that he had taken one too many blows to the head because why would Arthur be standing there, a little bit bloodied and ruffled and looking like a furious business god come down to smite them all.

After all, Arthur ruffled? That perfect façade ruined? That was a sure sign of a delusion. They must have been rougher on him than he’d believed, or at least had gotten in a few lucky hits. Had he lost too much blood?

But then it seemed a little less delusional – or maybe more, he had a little bit of a concussion and was having trouble deciding which – when the American man ducks the bloodied baton they’d been beating Eames with and effortlessly punches the offending guard right in the balls. Hard. Really hard. And really, Eames wouldn’t imagine Arthur fighting dirty because who would ever look at the man and think that?

But maybe it was a really bad concussion.

He kind of wished that real Arthur did though because it would mean that there was at least one thing his _maybenotreally_ soul mate had going for him.

Arthur fought, all kicks and hard hits and elbows into sensitive areas and okay, this could be a little bit of a hiccup in his previously infallible plan to destroy the man in at least one way. Because that face of his, splattered with a few drops of blood, completely smooth in concentration with his eyes burning and hard and focused, that was all a very attractive picture.

Attractive and flexible, holy hell. And those legs, in those pants, they may have been weapons. With the way he used them, they might as well have been.

And what was he supposed to do with that? This absolute vision before him was systematically destroying the attacking enemy as well as a few of his previously held notions. Not all of them, obviously, but… A few.

When the last guard dropped, leaving Arthur standing in the middle of it all with his chest heaving and looking more delicious than he had any right to be, Arthur took a moment to adjust his suit before turning to the tied up and bloody man gaping at him.

“One moment, Mr. Eames.” Arthur told him, voice and breathing a little ragged and a lot attractive, and then he reached into his suit jacket, digging into the interior pocket and pulling out… A switch blade. He had a switch blade.

Why? How? Good god, the sight of him easily flicking the blade out and striding toward Eames confidently was making his pants a little too tight.

It was the adrenaline, most definitely. A previously unexplored danger kink, maybe. It couldn’t be Arthur though. He _hated_ Arthur. He was stuck up and prim and proper and unbearable and he’d ignored Eames for a month. A month! After claiming they were soulmates, no less.

There was a bead of sweat rolling down his temple as he bent to cut through the zip ties binding him in place, and that more than anything is what tilted Eames’ world on its axis. Even during the hottest day of summer with the air-conditioning broken, still wearing his fussy but undeniably lovely clothes, Arthur hadn’t been sweating. Eames knew for certain, because he’d been watching, waiting for even the slightest sign of weakness, which, now that he thought on it, might have been a bit much.

But he was sweating now. He was bloodied and sweating and his hair was a bit mussed, and he was kneeling down to cut off the binds but maybe Eames made a sound because then he looked up directly into his eyes. And Eames was falling into them, caught up in something he didn’t understand but maybe he was starting to want to and the bastard, not blinking or moving his eyes away, slid his hand up from Eames’ ankle, stroking over the length of his sock until he was finally touching skin. It was only a brush of the tips of his index and middle fingers, a brush and then a settling, the rest separated by the fabric of his sock and more self-control than any normal man should have. Because just that little bit, just that slight meeting of skin, was the only physical contact they’d had since that handshake.

And suddenly Eames couldn’t fathom why because even just that, that minuscule bit of contact, was the most amazing thing he had ever felt.

It wasn’t like the first time, where it had felt like something he had always needed but had never known coming into creation right in front of him and around him and inside of him. Then it had been a shifting of worlds and of self, a tidal wave of emotions and knowings that had answered every unanswered question he had ever had.

It had been pure and unforgiving and all encompassing, and there would be nothing like it ever again.

This, this was a tender reawakening of those pieces of him that had been invented just for this, this man crouching in front of him with those eyes and that suit and those two fingers that were just barely touching him. Not just touching him though, even though that would have been enough to overwhelm him. Arthur was touching him like he was something delicate to be hesitant about, like he was so fragile he’d shatter if the touch got any firmer. It was kind of insulting, kind of incredible, and completely earth shattering.

It was warm, like the sun had been through the window of his first apartment, the bloody thing broken and run down and the heater had only insisted on working during the summer but that window had let in the most perfect light and he’d fancied himself a starving artist back then. He didn’t remember any of his paintings and sketches from back then, had thrown everything out in a fit of rage one day after having received some less than optimal news, but he did remember that he had been happy with them. Up until happiness had been the opposite of what he had wanted to feel, he had been happy whenever that sunlight had warmed him.

It was settling, like the feeling he’d gotten the first time he’d gone into a dream and there had been so many possibilities, so long as he had the imagination for it, and he had. Oh, he had. He could be anything, could do anything, so long as he had been willing to stop being himself. And himself had been the last thing he had wanted to be back then, so unhappy and angry at everything and himself most of all. Except when he was in a dream. In a dream, away from the real world, he was home.

It was burning, like fury and anger and passion and he’d thought he’d had a lot of that in his life, he had thought he’d thrived on it, had grown to run on only that, but how could he have when all of that was just a pale imitation of this feeling?

It was eye opening, and as he stared into the eyes of a man he supposed he could maybe stop hating, he was suddenly so afraid he couldn’t breathe.

“Hands,” He grits out, hastily breaking the moment, and when those two points of contact slipped away he had to grind his teeth together against the need to ask for it back, “Now.”

That neat little blade cut through the rest of his binds efficiently, their skin carefully not coming into contact again, and as soon as he was free Eames was pulling out his totem, his breath coming more easily once he saw the clumsy mistakes he had made a life time ago when counterfeiting the chip.

“Did you think this was a dream, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asked in a tone that could have been smug if he hadn’t been so careful about it. Eames glared.

“Shut up.”

“Of course.”

There it was, that damn even tone that was so unbothered and distant. Eames has to clench his fists and hold himself back from punching that stupid face as the man easily stands up and steps away, because how dare he? They’d had a _moment._

One he’d ruined, sure, but he’d had good reason.

There was no reason, however, to revert back to the dick faced twat the younger man had been acting as for the past weeks. What, did he want Eames to start hating him again? Because he was half way there again due to the way those damn eyes slid away from him as the man stated they should be getting on their way.

_Yeah, you weren’t that worried about that a few minutes ago,_ Eames angrily thought at his back, sneering a little at the fallen guards they passed. There were a lot, and how dare he? He had to have somehow known that the one way to get Eames to stop glaring and start ogling was to fight like some superspy from a movie, and oh look, here came another guard. One Arthur took care of with a punch to shut the man up and then a knee to the gut, the butt of the rifle he was toting to the back of the head and then on down the hallway like nothing had happened.

He was doing it on fucking purpose, and how dare he use this previously unknown weakness of Eames’ against him? It was fighting dirty and more importantly it was rude.

Eames remembered him fighting dirty earlier in the room, and cursed the fact that he had. How was he supposed to not walk out of here with a hard on? If the prissy brunette bastard in front of him didn’t stop, then they would have problems.

“Come along, Mr. Eames. I don’t want to lose you again.” Arthur called back quietly, because Eames had been so caught up in his own thoughts he’d slowed down too much, and the distance between them now was inexcusable. Also, what had been that thing he could just barely detect underneath the surface of those words?

“And how, may I ask, did you find me in the first place, Darling?” He drawled as he hurried to catch up and oh no, was that a blush? A tiny one, just at the tips of his ears and the lightest brush on his cheeks? It was like a punch to the gut and this bastard better not be cute underneath it all because that was where he drew the line. Eames would do something extremely violent and inadvisable if this bastard ended up having any cute little quirks because he could handle sexy and dangerous. It would be difficult, but he would and could handle it. However, he absolutely _refused_ to even consider dealing with cute and dangerous.

“Soulmates, or at least most of them, can manage to find each other no matter the distance. It’s something of a pull towards the other, one that science has yet to explain yet. That, plus the fact that soulmates can feel when the other is in danger and,” He shrugs, sounding and looking completely unaffected and for once Eames didn’t say anything back, taking a moment to think it all over. Because he could feel a tug, light and tentative like the thinnest thread connecting him, but he hadn’t noticed it before.

It was there though, barely there but still there, and he certainly hadn’t noticed it before. He’d read about them in his research, but he hadn’t felt them then and had taken that as proof of this whole, them being soulmates thing as a farce.

“I didn’t really notice a connection until now.” Eames says, measuring the weight of each of his words and watching the other man for some sort of sign. And sure, that mask of his was perfect, but there in those eyes flashed the slightest shadow of disappointment.

“I think you’ve been actively suppressing it since it happened. I, however, have not.”

“Well, aren’t you a special little snowflake.” He quipped, but it was weak at best because really, that was it?

He wasn’t feeling the things he was supposed to be feeling because he was suppressing it? He was actively pushing this away, so that’s why it wasn’t working on his end?

And maybe that’s why he could sort of feel it now, just barely, because he was pretty sure something had changed in that room back there. Either that, or he had been weakened by the beating he’d taken and had become susceptible to the power of suggestion.

Well, he wasn’t completely convinced. There was still a part of him that was almost certain that none of this was true. That the infallible looking man in front of him was some kook with delusions of fantasy. After all, he still couldn’t see how this would work between them, or even why it would.

There was only one thing to do, then.

“What’s the plan?” He asks Arthur, shoving his hands into his pockets and watching the man carefully. He sees how his lips pinch, and how his face folds into an expression of frustration just before smoothing out into distant perfection once again.

“We’ll follow the extraction plan I drew up. There is no way we can complete the job successfully now.”

“So we’re going our separate ways?” Eames prods, and there is a flash of resignation in those striking eyes just before the man quietly sighs in defeat.

"Yes, Mr. Eames. You never have to see me again.”

“Until our date.” Eames finishes, watching smugly as the infallible figure beside him actually freezes and watches him in shock.

“What?” He asks quietly, and Eames couldn’t stop the pleased grin that spreads on his face if he had tried.

He had finally, _finally_ got one up on him. Or at least it felt that way.

And it felt good.

“We won’t see each other until our date. If we’re going to get to know one another, I insist on a date. Multiple dates. Lavish ones. I want to be _wooed_ , Darling.” He teases rocking back on his heels and figuring that they have a few more moments to stand here before they had to hurry on their way.

After all, Eames needed to savor this moment and remember it for the rest of his life. The moment he struck the Arthur speechless from his charm and seductive ways. That’s how he’d be retelling it, anyways.

“And really, I suppose we should do this correctly. So, what do you say? Next week, Wednesday so we miss most of the travelers, we meet up in… Oh, I’m feeling Cairo.” He grins sharply at the still shocked expression on the other man’s face. “It should be big, but I feel like anywhere else would be too predictable.” Eames scoffs.

Arthur blinks at him for a moment before smiling, really truly smiling and this is the moment Eames would look back on later, seeing it as the moment of no return. Because those dimples, the way that smile lit up his face and those dimples? How is a man ever supposed to walk away from that?

“That sounds wonderful, Mr. Eames.” He says happily, still smiling at the now stunned man before him, and oh, how Eames fell.

“Right.” He squeaked out, throat feeling a bit like someone was strangling him. But in a good way.

Was that another kink? He didn’t think so, but it sure was a night for self-discovery.

Before anything else could be said there was a shout behind them, and they turned to see a furious troop of soldiers quickly making their way to them. With a quick glance to each other they were both off like a shot, running down the busy streets and getting lost in the crowds of tourists, just two more white travelers hiding behind cameras and phones in a sea of them.

As the group piled onto a bus the two separated, hands barely brushing as they walked in opposite directions. There was just a brief flash of _warmthrightgood_ and then it was gone, and so were they.

But next Wednesday there would be Cairo, and neither of them would miss it for the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Have a great day/night/existence!


End file.
